2086/A (sort of) Brother from Another Mother

A (sort of) Brother from Another Mother
Date of Scene:	21 August 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Red Hood, Robin (Wayne)

---

Red Hood has posed:
Ding-dong.

Ding-dong, ding-dong.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

"Guess what, guys? I tried. Fuck you, too. I'm coming in even if nobody's gonna answer." This ruffian, this HOODlum at the double doors to Wayne Manor, casually slips out a tiny black box from the pocket of his leather jacket. It opens with a soft, but audible, snck. Gloved fingers dancing over the small assembly of silver tools, the B&E artist clicks his tongue off the backs of pearly white teeth. He shakes his black hair from his eyes after selecting two, holding them up for further inspection.

Baby blues scrutinizing the hook piece, he's found his means for swift entry.

Jason, as he is called when sans helmet, gets to work without preamble, wasting no time deliberating his actions or their inappropriateness. He helps himself to picking the lock and it springs faster than expected, even for him. It's almost so easy that he feels guilty. "Just as I was getting into it," Todd laments his good fortune sarcastically, venting a harsh snort.

One of the ornate doors swings open, ushering in a gentle evening breeze. Following after that first fresh breath of air, the former Robin doesn't move like a thief might in the foyer. He crosses the threshold as though he belongs here, and goes so far as to seal his escape route by shutting the door behind him. That pitches the grand hall into almost complete darkness, little light trickling in through the high windows above. Jason glances up the staircase, replacing glinting tools in the box and exchanging them for something cylindrical in shape.

A flashlight.

He presses the button and the torch flares to life, its pale beam illuminating all that it touches. Specs of dust float through the light's path. It is swung one way and then the other. "And the library is..." Direction. Over there. Perhaps he'll be encountering Alfred along the way. Wouldn't that be nice? Not Bruce. Bruce wouldn't be happy to see Jason Todd busting into his home, no matter what his intentions are. Surely there's no one else to intercept him on his way to the cave underground. No obnoxious child raised by the League of Assassins and dumped on a certain playboy's doorstep. Impossible.

Robin (Wayne) has posed:
     Ding-dong.

"Pennyworth will get it."

Ding-dong, ding-dong.

"Who could that even -be- at this hour?"

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!

">tt<"

  The teenager of the manor leaves his room, in the west wing, more than annoyed. He'd actually made decent progress on a couple sketches he was working on in the other sketchbook. Damian's al Ghul green eyes shifted to the corridor, before the basketball shorts clad boy turned the corner to the grand staircase.

An intruder...

  The boy darts behind the wall for a moment, escaping the flashlight's gaze for now. He took a moment to review the layout of the foyer in his mind. As soon as the intruder made his way towards the library, Damian shifts into gear, jumping off the ledge and catching himself on the ground. His movements were as silent as a trained master Assassin should be, swift and silent. He hadn't needed any flashlight to see around here, this was his home. The boy stalked in the shadows for now, holding a silent surveillance as Wayne Manor's protector this night.

Red Hood has posed:
Yes, yes, your home, not his home. Not anymore, at least.

While the young man doesn't bumble around like a mook, nor does he tread softly, Jason moves with a notable uncertainty in his footsteps. The light skips over the china in the dining room, hesitating here and there in nostalgic familiarity. It hovers even longer at the base of an antique vase, where chicken scratch is just barely visible in the paint. A childish mark left behind out of anger.

Jason gradually moves on, forward, into the library. Absently, he drags his free hand over the title of each volume decorating a recently dusted shelf, drawing himself up to full height before the aged clock. The clock that needs to be set to a particular time, when Thomas and Martha Wayne died all those years ago. Alfred explained the significance to him as a child, and he has never forgotten it.

If he hasn't been interrupted by this point, after much ado for nothing at the front door, he feels it's safe to assume that it won't occur until he's breached the cave's security system. A confrontation awaits Jason there, no doubt. In the form of Bruce or his elderly butler associate. They just can't hear him above ground, owing to the heavy sound-proofing below.

But, man, the second Robin has got this super bad feeling going on.

His guts are twisting up a hotdog from earlier, making him regret asking for all that cheese, bacon and ketchup.

At the back of his neck, his hair is standing on end.

There are many things that this intruder hates, and currently topping the list is being spooked, for any reason. Jason has always been the 'rush headlong into trouble' sort of person. He can't barrel at something that isn't seen or heard. Only checking over his shoulder once with the flashlight, searching for any unnatural shapes and shadows, the now disturbingly quiet manor is filled with what he can provide to remedy it: Todd talks to himself, his words ringing out in a clear, articulate tenor. "Wouldn't surprise me if this place was haunted," he says, reaching to adjust the hour hand on the clock's face, "I wonder if there's a ghost that tells you to lighten up? Or 'quit wearing underwear over your tights, you fashion disaster'?"

"Hell, could've been my ghost, back then."

Now for the minute hand, arm remaining outstretched, but frozen in place. He doesn't even breathe, holding onto what he just barely managed to inhale, an ache spreading throughout his broad chest. The bridge of Jason's nose wrinkles and his blood runs alarmingly cold. Oh shit? Oh shit!

Robin (Wayne) has posed:
     Adept skills keep Damian silent before Jason had looked over his shoulder. He watched as the hour hand was moved to 10 o'clock.

  Shit, could this guy know the code?

  The youngest Wayne had decided to make his move as the elder Robin hesitates for the minute hand. Swift feet make a run for the intruder, jumping up and attempting a jumping kick. He has no gear on right now, it is only a boy, in a black tee shirt and Gotham Knights gray and crimson basketball shorts, not even stinky socks weaponized for chemical warfare. He was only interested in pacification at this point, he'd call the police later, after asking a few questions.

Red Hood has posed:
By this point, he's past the point of no return.

Technically, if we're drawing lines in the sand, the 'point' was actually the moment he picked the lock, but I digress.

Jason does not care. Behold his field of fucks and see that it is barren.

A ripple in the air, the soft swish of cloth. Swift though the feet may be against plush carpet, the sound betrays the presence and it whispers to him like a spy. Human, not a ghost, but small. A child?! Jason pivots, his response delayed by a heartbeat, and some boy's sole plants itself directly into the tender spot of his shoulder, below the collar bone. His upper body bends backwards, but he remains a wall, because his much taller, heavier form digs in. He absorbs the impact surprisingly well, used to being hit with harder, steel-type objects.

He emits a single grunt. It ekes past barely parted lips, which eventually purse together thinly.

The hell's he supposed to do with this brat, Todd's mind reels. The mental alarms and paranoia fall quiet in a hush as it dawns on him. Taking a second to organize his thoughts, gears grind into motion, but perhaps--

Actually, you know what? Before he gets smoked in the head by a follow-up, the flashlight falls mutely, beam bouncing over the walls, rolling until it casts him in a slightly horrific light. Like a vice, one hand moves to clamp down on the boy's ankle, if he's able to anchor the heir-apparent in place. The other, it reaches for the collar of that Gotham Knights t-shirt. Together in synchrony, his success means Damian gets thrown at the floor. Not unkindly, but hardly in a gentle fashion. Regardless of the outcome, what he has to say remains the same, "Nice outfit, kid. Ever thought about trying on a pair of pixie boots? Don't look like they'd fit you, though."

"Still, you kick pretty hard for a runt."

It was there, on the very tip of his tongue. 'Oh hey, you must be Robin, or has Bruce decided you're too young to play ball?' Seriously, Damian looks about twelve.

Added to the list of things he hates, now assuming priority, fighting children. Jason Todd, a former Robin himself, brushing his dark hair from eyes as clear as the sky, would rather not engage in fisticuffs with pint-sized here. The corners of his lips possess the downturn of a frown, aging him beyond his only twenty years.

Robin (Wayne) has posed:
     As the flashlight makes its way towards the ground, Damian notes the face he's only seen in records on the Batcomputer. He almost immediately backs off the offensive.

  Hands clasp the Damian's ankle, and the boy is thrown, landing with the grace of a cat on his feet, hand outstretched and grasping the floor.

  "Pixie boots are archaic." It was true, his own uniform bore more a resemblance to his assassin past than anything else the others had worn. "Are you going to explain why you broke in here, Todd, before I kick your ass back out?" Always on the offensive, he figured the former Robin deserved a chance to explain himself before receiving a beat down from the former assassin. "Or are you just too stupid to remember about Pennyworth?" It was true, he'd only heard rumblings on how unfortunate it would be for someone to actually break into the Manor.

Red Hood has posed:
Imagine if the Batcomputer only listed his status as deceased, with a smiling picture frozen in time at fifteen years. Would Damian lose his mind? Mark this day the start of the ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE?! Hilarious though that would be, it's unlikely Batman's thorough coverage of his Rogues Gallery would just skip over the emergence of the Red Hood, even if the man behind the helm was a former Robin. A 'good soldier'. The image just hasn't been updated, probably...

Until tonight.

If his old Robin ID photograph were held to the young man's face hovering in the shadows, five years hasn't changed him a tremendous amount. Jason just got bigger, put on muscle. It's no wonder that his recognition comes too easily to this waif of the Wayne family, but that doesn't mean Todd has the right to gabble away like the kid knows anything. Damian could've just read the newspaper. At ten. That's clearly what any ten-year-old would do.

"Quite the mouth there, shrimp. Maybe if you answered the door, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Jason's frown deepens, were that even possible. The dulcet (ha) tones of his tenor remain measured in thinly veiled mockery. "Or do you expect Alfred to take care of all mundane, trivial matters that are apparently beneath you? The guy's gotta be like ninety, let him sleep." His following gesture is not threatening, cracking his knuckles to loosen the tension that had coiled up inside him like a viper. Kick his ass back out, he's scoffing SO HARD inwardly.

Rolling his shoulder, which is already beginning to bruise, the purplish mark crawling to his collar bone and over as it spread, Jason exhales in exasperation, "First, introductions. I don't kowtow to preteens, even little volatile ones." Check this, digging the toe of his motorcycle boot underneath the flashlight. After flipping it up, it hits the pad of his gloved hand with a careless slap. Nice blind catch! "You got it, my name is Jason Todd. I'd say to just call me Jay, but it looks like Mr. Pixie Boots Are Archaic prefers the similarly old-fashioned referring to people by their last name approach." The light of the torch hits Damian square in the chest. Hopefully he's straightened up from the landing crouch. "Your turn."

Robin (Wayne) has posed:
     Damian looks up at Jason, his face scowling hard. In the light now one may see a certain resemblance to the house Billionaire. "Maybe if you showed up at a decent time someone would answer promptly." Not that it mattered at all. His slightly mature voice keeps going. "Operative word there is sleep. Who the -fuck- shows up uninvited this late?"

  The little ball of anger keeps it up. "I'm fifteen, not that it would matter to a simpleton." He stands up straight, showing all five feet two inches of his height. "I am Damian Wayne." He keeps it at that, keeping the scowl on his face as his al Ghul green eyes pierce into Jason's blues.

Red Hood has posed:
"Careful, sprog. Don't want to use up your entire vocabulary in one evening." The more Damian rattles on, seizing the opportunity to berate him not necessarily with relish, but SOMETHING, Jason is becoming increasingly aware of how he just doesn't like this kid. Mouthy, impertinent, arrogant... It hits home in a way that almost feels like he's being stared down by his younger reflection.

The bug up the heir-apparent's ass seems a lot bigger than Jason's ever was, though.

His expression in return isn't a scowl to match, but the persisting downward turn of his thin lips, pupils narrowed in shrewd appraisal now that he can see the brat's features better. The ability to compare to Bruce relies entirely on memory, and that cannot conjure up an exact replica of the real thing. It is missed. He assumes he's speaking with another ward, probably with circumstances similar to his own, pulled from a life on the streets. Before any further establishment of camaraderie is made with Damian, however, Jason receives a name, as requested.

He just about chokes on his own tongue, spluttering, "Wayne?!"

Did Thomas Wayne have a brother? Is this his former guardian's cousin? Some other distant relative that was left to Bruce, like a baby with a note pinned to its blanket? Jason invades the twiggy short-shit's personal space, but only to stand there peacefully so he can peer closely at Damian. His arms fold against his chest, the fabric of his nondescript black t-shirt shifting. Gloved fingers tap restlessly at his leather-clad bicep. "Blue eyes are supposed to be dominant over green, but..."

No.

No, is it possible?

Turning away, the young man releases a harsh bark of laughter, not unlike the thunderclap that rends a still night asunder. "Are you for real? I'll bet you're Bruce's spitting image, but you're HER son." A surprise, Jason knows Talia. If it weren't for the Demon's Daughter, who knows where he'd be now. Dead again or perhaps worse, without any idea of his past or identity, lost in the world for all eternity.

But why hadn't their paths crossed before?

The desire to ask is there, insistent as it presses against the back of his teeth, but Jason Todd still cannot determine what are appropriate questions. Bring up the League of Assassins or teenage 'occupation' could open a can of worms that wasn't quite ready, yet. He had an idea that Batman's secret identity was Bruce Wayne following his adoption, but if this boy wasn't privy to that...

Out of respect, the secret remains safe.

Chuckling to spite the teen, he wonders aloud, "Have you ever made that face for so long, it's stayed that way? Or are you attempting to intimidate me?" The former Robin blithely gestures, "Square your shoulders more, mini-Wayne, and try raising your head a little." He can't help but smirk faintly, this new face perhaps lost to the darkness. "Unfortunately, showing up at a decent hour wasn't possible." At least Todd gave it the old college try to get the attention of anyone in Wayne Manor. That was fifteen minutes he won't be getting back.

Finally heaving a sigh, mostly to himself, he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, using the torch to illuminate the empty entrance to the library. "By now, it's probably too late." Jason should've known that his good fortune with the front door was actually a trap! If only it weren't for Damian posing as an obstacle, to his conscience and to his physical presence. Ugh! "I guess tonight ain't all a waste, however. Not everyday /I/ get to meet a new sibling." There's a manner in which he speaks that one particular word, forlorn and almost melancholy, but tinged with envy and resentment. At least it is mostly hidden by his casual cadence.

Robin (Wayne) has posed:
     Damian's eyes don't waver from Jason's. Either out of respect (doubtful), or vigilance. The boy in the oh-so typical getup of Football team casual clothes only rolls his eyes, until his lineage is mentioned.

  "Of course Wayne, are you both inept and deaf? I'm in bedclothes, this is my home." It was quite apparent, the boy was of mixed race, but under his father's features, was the slightly olive skin, the green eyes that seemed an al Ghul trademark. Unfortunately the boy doesn't grow calmer at the mention of his mother. He automatically clenches his fist, standing back and poised to strike again. If Jason was not keen on opening cans of worms, Damian had bashed them wide open. "If you're here on League authority, I'm not going back! Why -they- would send someone for me is honestly insulting." Meaning his mother and his grandfather.

  It wouldn't surprise anyone that a boy who was meant to take the throne as the Demon's Head would be kept cloistered. Damian had only been trained by masters in the League, along with Ra's and Talia themselves.

Red Hood has posed:
Allowing further insults to slip off him as though he were made of Teflon, Jason's behaviour can't exactly be considered kind, either.

But it was no more provoking than being called deaf and inept, or a simpleton.

That's why the sudden, almost startling reaction surprises him. Both eyebrows hike up his forehead, jaw slack to leave his mouth agape. Oh, really? We're not communicating in verbal hostilities anymore? Was that a nerve? With one cat out of the bag, he schools his expression into quiet curiosity, before clearing his throat to interrupt, "The League tried to use me as an assassin, once. Let me tell you something, it didn't go so well. They wouldn't want a failure like me in their employ, especially as a delivery boy." The trip down memory lane ends in a perfectly bittersweet smile. "Good thing I didn't care about their shit, or else you wouldn't have a father." And neither would Jason, in a sense.

Not to mention, Gotham would need another Batman.

"Anyway, Damian, keep your shorts on. I'd rather not fight brats, even just to spar." Jason doesn't know what to do with his arms when they unfold, so slender digits wrap around his narrow hips, still with the torch trapped between. He shakes black hair from obscuring azure pools. "Do me a favour and tell Bruce I was here." No doubt the man of the manor will want to update his photo gallery with the new footage obtained from security cameras tonight. He's taking his leave while there's only one piece of dirty laundry out in the open. To get more information right now requires equivalent exchange, or showing his hand, so to speak. No thanks.

Unless there's anything the future host body of Ra's al Ghul wishes to do to stop him, Todd brushes right by the kid. His long strides carry him quickly from the library to the hall, having to rely on the flashlight's thin beam of light to guide him. "Don't worry, I'll show myself out." He'll even lock the door, too!

In the back of his mind, he's certain that he'll encounter the heir-apparent again, perhaps even as his own former identity. Then, they can talk plainly.

A scowl accompanies Jason's departure, and a stream of pale smoke from a lit cigarette once he's outside.

Robin (Wayne) has posed:
     With Jason's words, Damian soon deescalates himself. Of course, if Jason was there for Damian then there wouldn't have been any ringing, no rapping on the Manor door.

  He wonders, for a brief moment if Todd had any contact with his mother. A thought that quickly recedes into the back of Damian's mind. He would have to search her out himself.

  The boy nods as he's requested to let Bruce know he was there, a simple enough request that begets a simple response.

  What a strange man.

  Perhaps they both didn't know just how alike they were.